


but nothing i'll ever need

by pertunes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pertunes/pseuds/pertunes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Well—if you guys don’t mind, I could go for another." Louis whoops, overjoyed. He’s going to buy him the entire bar, he thinks.</i> </p><p>  <i>“That’s not remotely necessary,” he hears Harry say behind him.</i></p><p>  <i>“That’s Louis, by the way,” Zayn says. “He will buy the bar if we don’t catch up.”</i></p><p>  <i>And that’s the last thing Louis can remember before getting off in the toilets with Harry Styles.</i></p><p>In which Louis, Liam, Niall, and Zayn are in a band of their own, Harry's the next up-and-coming in movies, and everyone is usually drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but nothing i'll ever need

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost, this is for wont_stop_larry on lj, who asked for this well over a year ago. (speed is not my forte.) i'm so very sorry because this does not have half of what you originally wanted and worked itself into a 15k word monster with a lot less sex than i anticipated. i'd love to do extra scenes/timestamps for this, though, so there's always hope!
> 
> there are tons of instances in this fic with different formatting to indicate texts, phone calls, tweets, gossip sites, etc, so if anyone discovers/has any issues with that please let me know! i don't work with a beta so there are probably plenty of mistakes abound~
> 
> this was my baby this summer and i'm super happy to just finally be posting it. the title is from liam's stupid tattoo 'everything i wanted but nothing i'll ever need' so thx for that bb
> 
> ****also adding in a warning here for the use of a homophobic slur and emetophobia because there are a few sick scenes and i don't want to leave that out!

Louis is drunk.

That was the theme of the tour, he decided two months ago, so they’ve got to go out with a bang. Niall’s drunk, but he’s standing. Louis just fell out of the bus.

“Whoa,” someone says. Possibly the someone holding him up. “You okay?”

Louis  rights himself, leaning on this stupidly tall someone, and blinks away the blurriness.

“Hey,” he shouts. “Hey, you’re that bloke. Hey, Zayn, Zayn, this is that bloke.” He hasn’t seen Zayn in three hours, but he’ll hear Louis, he’s sure.

The someone looks amused. And annoyingly sober outside this club.

“Sssstyles,” Louis hisses. He squints. “Yeah. You’re him.”

“I am,” the someone says. Harry Styles, the someone, makes an incredibly good leaning post. Sturdy.

“Lou, you shout like the whole city needs to hear you,” Zayn says, coming around a corner, and Louis sighs with relief, transferring his leaning favoritism to Zayn, slumping on his shoulder.

“Styles,” Louis grumbles, as an answer. “’S in my way.”

“Oh hey,” Zayn says, holding his hand out. “Zayn Malik, hi.”

“Harry,” Harry takes his hand, smiling very prettily. Louis might roll his eyes, he doesn’t know.

“Were you headed out? Come back with us, I’ll buy you a drink,” Zayn offers, which, hey. Louis may be suspicious of this very sober Harry Styles, but he did appreciate his leaning post qualities. Louis could be buying him a drink. Zayn can’t buy him a drink.

“I really—I’ve got an audition in the morning,” Harry says, and he looks genuinely sorry.

“He’s got an audition, Zayn,” Louis says loudly, fumbling his arm around his shoulders so they can head inside and get on their way.

“Aw, yeah, no problem, mate. Maybe we’ll catch you again some time.”

“No problem,” Louis repeats, swaying his head.

Harry chews his lip. Louis stares. Zayn’s shirt might have drool on it.

“Well—if you guys don’t mind, I could go for another.”

Louis whoops, overjoyed, heading for the entrance. He’s going to buy him the entire bar, he thinks.

“That’s not remotely necessary,” he hears Harry say behind him.

“That’s Louis, by the way,” Zayn says. “He will buy the bar if we don’t catch up.”

And that’s the last thing Louis can remember before getting off in the toilets with Harry Styles.

-

Sunlight, Louis thinks, is a joke. Along with very loud birds, early bus call times, and under-functioning hotel curtains, and like, a third of those things are assaulting him in this moment.

He’s trying to analyze exactly how much his drunk self fucked things up for his morning self without moving from his spot on the bed. It’s futile, though; he can’t find half his clothes from his vantage point and he’s so nauseous the earth’s rotation is probably fucking him up at this point.

There’s a bruise, just between his thumb and wrist, purpling that soft part of his hand. Where someone got rough, got sloppy, held on too tight.

He rummages around for his phone. There are worse decisions he could be making this morning. Probably.

 

It’s a fucking movie set, is Louis’ first impression when he finally gets there. Or TV, he’s not sure. He is pretty sure he just parked in a back alley and he’s a little pissed about that.

He’s gauging the people milling about, those that notice him even with the sunglasses and hat, if they recognize him, if they don’t. There are alarms coming from one end of the street, scary loud, where they must be filming, and he decides to steer clear of that altogether. Louis’ been on sets, but none like this, and he’s just trying to find— _trailers_ , parked in a little lot of their own, the sun beaming down on them like a sign from God, Louis assumes _._

They’re not labeled, of course. Louis stands in the middle of a row, hands in his pockets, and knows he’s completely failed at not looking out of place. Anxiety sits in stomach then, because he literally just showed up at a bloke’s job like a stalker. Also, this set needs better security.

Louis has that deep rooted time-to-fucking-bolt sick feeling rolling around his stomach and then Harry turns the corner, and his plan is fucked.

“Are you lost?” Harry asks. He’s friendly, even in the face of an almost stranger’s unexpected presence, hint of a smirk under his aviators with a coffee in his hand, and Louis thinks, offhandedly, he is as tall as last night. Maybe taller.

“No—er, well, I was. Someone told me I could find you here,” Louis says. He squares his shoulders. It doesn’t help.

“So you’re not lost then? Just enjoying the set?”

He is stupidly tall. He’s wearing plaid. Louis feels a little bit drunk still, maybe.

“I’m going to blow you in your trailer,” Louis says, and starts up the few steps to a trailer door, praying it’s Harry’s. Now they’re even height. And Harry’s grinning.

“I was just going to eat a banana,” he says, pulling out some keys. Louis might fall over.

“You absolutely can’t do that at the same time,” Louis says immediately.

“I’ve got fifteen minutes,” Harry says, unlocking the door smoothly.

Louis steps in, and he notices it seems unlived in, first. Second, there are a lot of bowls of fruit. “That can’t be a challenge,” he says, half-questioning, eyes flicking up to Harry’s, watching him shut the door behind them.

“It was more a friendly threat,” Harry says, and locks the door.

-

_Hi_

_Your number was incredibly easy to get btw_

Is this Louis?

_Niall had it. Do u know why niall had it because he doesn’t_

Wait who’s niall?

_He’s the blonde one who drank more than all of us the other night_

Oh. I don’t remember him

_Oh thank god I can’t remember anything either. I don’t even know who you are really_

Haha thanks so much

Wait this is Louis right. I hope this is Louis

-

Harry Styles, it turns out, is incredibly in demand.

Louis invites him out twice and gets shot down and then backs off. Until Harry texts him, _Sorry im so boring during shooting I’ll be done soon_. Louis finds both of those statements to be absolute rubbish.

Harry has a week of midnight call times and Louis is up anyway. He basically crashes his trailer and they put Harry’s bed to good use. He gives Harry probably the best blowjobs of his life, if he does say so himself, and they make out until they fuck each other’s hands, and once, at 4 am, Harry falls dead asleep on his shoulder and stays that way until the PA comes for him.

Louis’ own apartment is hardly unpacked and barely furnished, but Louis goes home and watches one of Harry’s first movies and then deletes it from his Netflix history.

 

 The next morning, Louis says, “we’re on break,” and Zayn says, “fuck off,” and barrels past him into his flat.

“I’m just saying,” Louis says, shutting the door, scratching at his stomach under his shirt. “Don’t expect this place to be tidy; my home can look like this while we’re on a break.”

Zayn plops down onto his sofa heavily, kicking his sneakers off and throwing his feet onto the table. Louis has taught him well.

“You’re not tidy anyway, Lou,” Zayn scoffs, and he grabs for the remote, already flipping through channels on Louis’ ridiculously huge TV.

“We’re on a break,” Louis continues, opening the fridge door. He searches for beer or anything but he’s clean out. He’s clean out of mostly everything, save for a jar of olives and a door full of condiments. He shuts it and goes to see what Zayn’s going to make him sit through. “I could use some space, you know, we all could,” he says, as he mirrors Zayn on the sofa, connected from shoulder to him to knee.

“Yeah, Perrie and the girls are on week two of dance rehearsals and they’ve basically moved into my house, fuck your space,” Zayn huffs. He’s still channel flipping but Louis doesn’t think he’s even paying attention. “You could use some space, I bet. Probably not from Harry Styles, though, right?” Zayn pauses, looking smug at Louis.

Louis rolls his eyes, sinking deeper into the cushions. “He’s a cool lad, yeah,” he shrugs, ignoring Zayn’s gaze. “I like getting off with him, s’not much else to it.”

“Mm,” Zayn says noncommittally, and Louis can’t tell if he’s done prying or really doesn’t care, but when he looks back at the TV screen there’s young Harry Styles telling someone off, American accent shaky.

They watch for a minute in silence and then Louis says, “This is weird.”

Zayn grunts absently and says, “Yeah, but I like this movie.”

Louis does too, so he doesn’t make him change it.

-

 _Last audition is over_ :) Harry sends a few weeks later.

 _Celebrate!!!!_ Louis texts back, like Harry’s just gone done with his exams.

He tells Harry to bring anyone he likes because he brings the boys basically everywhere, but he finds Harry on that same curb as last time, alone. The club is just down the road from where the movie set is packing up, Louis notices suddenly, sober this time.

“Oi, this is that one you went off with last time,” Niall says eagerly as he bounds up to Harry, and Louis smacks him.

“This,” he presents him to Harry, “is Niall.”

Harry shakes his hand sheepishly.

“Hi,” Zayn waves at him. “Liam’s inside already.”

Niall’s eyes bulge. “Unfair,” he says and marches inside.

Harry, four shots in, somehow gets taller. He’s completely stretched, languid on their sofas in the back, all sharp angles and legs. He sips on whatever Zayn’s ordered when he goes out to dance because of course they like the same thing.

“The Rogue, I’ve—I’ve heard of you, yeah,” he’s saying. His forehead creases. “Not a boyband, though, right? Or am I thinking of someone else.”

“No,” Zayn says. “No, proper instruments and all that, you know. But we all sing. Liam’s got no rhythm.”

“Poor thing,” Louis tuts, shaking his head dramatically.

“He’s your drummer,” Harry says flatly and Louis grins at him, laughing with Zayn at their ancient joke.

Zayn downs the rest of his drink, ignoring Harry’s pout, and stands. “I’m calling a cab,” he announces and Louis nods emphatically at him.

“Early night,” Harry notes, watching him go.

“Going home to the wife,” Louis says, and knocks back the last of his own drink.

“What, he’s married?” Harry’s eyes widen.

Louis nods at him. “She’s on tour, though, so. Probably Skype sex.” He wrinkles his nose and Harry does the same.

He feels shuffling at his feet. Harry’s shoes are tapping at his ankles, clumsy, just above his shoes. “S’what your tattoo is,” he says, almost questioning, “The Rogue.”

“Yeah,” Louis says and rolls his eyes. “None of them will get it.”

Harry studies him for a moment. “Let’s go back to yours,” he says suddenly. “Show me the rest of them again.”

Louis freezes, thinks of his boxes and barely put together bed.

“I’m staying with Niall,” he lies quickly and he wasn’t before but he is now. “I promised, or I would.”

Harry doesn’t look that crestfallen, which, Louis thinks, is probably because no one ever gets upset with Niall. He takes Louis’ hand and asks him to dance with the others.

The first non-hungover thing Louis does the next morning is get Liam over help him start unpacking.

-

Harry does a month of call backs. Louis waits for his phone to light up.

-

“I need you awake before 11 AM tomorrow. I need some sort of confirmation that you are ready for studio. It is… half twelve right now and a car is coming at 3. I need to know you got this message. Louis, I will call every—”

Louis stops the voicemail. There are two more from Paul, and one from Liam. It’s routine—the first album meetings are never easy for him to step into after a break.

“Number three,” Liam grins, putting his hands up raise the roof style, as they enter the conference room. “Let’s go sign some shit, boys.”

They book four studios in three countries. Louis whistles. It’s a long way from hotel room vocals and parking lot sound effects. Zayn alone has two album’s worth of writing, let alone the rest of them, and they’ve been sent more demos than they could ever use.

“Start and end in London,” Louis says, looking up from the studio paperwork. His hand is black from his signatures and a few rogue ones from Liam.

“Come home at the end,” Niall agrees.

Paul nods. “Book it,” he tells the suits.

-

 **22.08.2014 3:07 PM**  
 **PICTURES** – The Rogue hit London studios to begin third album. **Click for more…**

-

“Niall Horan,” Louis says, “if you put an instrumental track on this album, no matter how long, I’m not playing it live.”

“Yeah, and I said you didn’t have to, Lou, so—”

“It could be six seconds or six hours, I do not care—”

“Christ’s sake, you can leave for all I care, jerk off back stage while I play the damn thing—”

“It will not touch a set list.”

“Hey.”

Louis shuts his mouth. It’s after midnight in the studio and Zayn is sleeping on the floor and they just got hey-ed by Liam.  He scribbles some more notes on the music page he was working on and listens to the silence. He’s not even angry, really, and neither is Niall.

“Record this guitar bit, Niall, Sal is waiting on you,” Liam says, and Niall stalks off to the booth.

“We all are,” Louis says and Liam kicks him.

“I’m waiting for you not to be an arse all the time.”

“Oh, don’t hold your breath, dear Liam.”

_Thus bar is rely boring w out you_  
 _Thus_  
 _Thus_  
 _Thus_  
 _I mean this :(  
_

Louis’ feels his hands sweat as the messages come in on his phone.

“Y’alright?” Liam asks, kicking his foot softly.

“Yeah, all good,” Louis says, staring at the screen.

_Do they let movie stars out alone now??_

_Nto a movie star_ , Harry types back. _Nobody cAlled me back_

Louis frowns. _Sorry :/ I told u to break a leg and everything_

_Im gonna lost my phone tonight_

And he must, because that’s the last message he sends Louis.

Niall finishes and they drag Zayn to a car and Louis watches another Harry Styles movie even though there’s an 8 AM studio time waiting for him in the morning.

-

**17.09.2014 11:49 AM**

**PICTURES** —Harry Styles’ all night bender. Just WHO did he get in a cab with? **Click for more…**

-

They finish their first round of songs and Liam says it calls for a celebration. Louis remembers the days when Liam Payne was not partial celebrating at all, so he likes to let him pick the place and to cherish these moments, because they’ll probably end up on a behind the music special someday, or something.

“We could do like, a bar after we’re done with each city,” Liam says. He says this after he fell trying to get out of the cab.

“A bar after we’re done with each song, more like,” Niall laughs.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Liam stops them from walking into the club. “A bar _before_ we start each song.” He holds out his hands, eyebrows sky high, looking at them like he’s just come up with the best idea in musical history.

“Or not,” Zayn says slowly, and puts Liam’s arms down.

Niall looks pensive. “An entire drunk al—hey, hey!” He’s waving at someone near the entrance Louis can’t see. “Harry Styles! Hey! We need to stop meeting like this,” he says, clapping Harry on the back.

Harry’s a little pissed, Louis can tell with how he doesn’t hesitate to shake any of their hands, all easy smiles and loud laughs. He pulls him into a hug, feels his arms tighten around his back. “Come in with us!” he tells Harry for the hundredth time, it feels.

A few hours in, Harry comes back to their table panting, leaning on a seat to catch his breath. “I can’t keep up with Liam,” he tells Louis, flushed pretty and grinning. If Louis were more sober he might stare less.

“None of us can,” he assures him. It’s almost stupid how well Harry can fit with the four of them, Louis thinks, as Harry plops next to him, sprawled too close. How well he can fit with Louis.

“Come back to mine,” Harry says suddenly, just above a whisper, just for Louis.

Louis watches his face; his eyes are clear, and his hot hands smooth Louis’ shirt, down his arms. If anyone were to be watching, Louis knows, they look seconds away from a whole lot of PDA, if not more. And then Louis thinks, “Don’t you—what about your people? They care if you go home with a boy?”

“No, no, papers only say anything if I’m obvious, you know, like, like,” _like last time_ , Louis thinks. “Come on,” Harry says, standing and pulling on Louis’ hand. “You’re going to Ireland in a few days.”

“How do you—”

“Niall told me. Or, he wouldn’t stop telling me about it.”

Louis nods inanely at him, tamping down the insane urge to say ‘you should come with.’ Harry pulls him out of his seat.

It turns out, ‘back to mine’ is back to Harry’s hotel room. Louis is almost going to ask if Harry has an actual home, between all the trailers and rooms, but then Harry’s pushing into his space, burning up, and he whispers, “fuck me,” and they haven’t done _that_ yet, so.

Harry takes fingers like he was fucking born for it, and when Louis tells him he almost comes. It’s his new favorite thing, he decides, Harry on his back and spread open, next to the tiny _unh unh unh_ noises he makes as Louis’ fingers fuck into him, like he can’t help it.

When he finally lines up and pushes himself in slowly, up to his balls, Harry’s chest is heaving and he’s soaked, sweat slick and cock drooling where it lies on his hip, angry red by now.

Louis leans over him on his hands, looking down where his hips are rolling and Harry’s holding himself open, hands on his knees, and Christ, he can _smell_ them together.

“Look at me,” he says when he sees Harry’s eyes won’t stay open.

“C’mon,” Harry says, weakly, but his eyes don’t shut again.

“Hold yourself, like that,” Louis says, pulling all the way out and snapping forward. Louis’ had his share of hotel sex, and it’s never been this intense. He doesn’t think it’s supposed to be this intense.

“C’mon,” Harry repeats, and he doesn’t stop when Louis lets go, dicking into him with long strokes, Harry’s cock trapped between them as he curls his arms around Harry’s face. That’s how they come.

Louis has never felt like such utter shit for leaving the morning after.

-

Ireland actually is a blur of pub after song after pub after song. Niall’s elated to be home, and when he’s not with them, he’s buying rounds for everyone at the bar. Louis hits it off with one girl, kisses her the whole way home, and then leaves her on her doorstep. He never hears anything about it on Twitter, and he’s thankful. He’s paying much more attention to his text messages, anyway.

_Craft services has been nothing but nandos for days_

Wow tragedy has really struck the film industry

Wait what craft services what are you filming

_This tiny thing like 2 pages for an independent. The director asked for me_

Of course he did

Movie star

_Mm maybe someday_

_Tell me when you’re going to the states so I don’t have to ask loads of ppl and look creepy_

What are u planning Harry styles

_;)_

-

 **Twitter** 43m  
@Harry_Styles just followed @Louis_Tomlinson on Twitter!

 **Louis Tomlinson** @Louis_Tomlinson                       45m  
California here we coooome ! Can’t wait for you to hear this album

**-**

It’s an eleven hour flight from London to LAX. Louis has nine of their thirteen new unfinished tracks on his phone, and two voicemails from Harry going into great detail about the people at a film festival, the first of which starts, _It’s so fucking late but I had to tell you_

-

Halfway through the day the studio door opens and they all turn their heads to see Harry Styles walk in with the coffee order they’d sent out.

“You’re a fucking twat,” Louis says, smiling, all fondness at the edges.

“Starbucks, anyone?” Harry asks, with the dumbest grin Louis has ever seen. He’s in those aviators and a white shirt and he looks a hell of a lot better than the rest of them, coming in with the California sun.

“Harry Styles!” Liam yells from in the booth, chucking his headphones. There’ll probably be four more takes of this song, and Louis doesn’t even care.

Harry has hugs for all of them, even Paul, who grumbles at Harry’s happy, “I’ve heard so much about you!” and then Liam is being shoved back into the booth and Louis drags Harry back outside by the hand, leans with him against the wall.

He plays with the sleeve of Harry’s top around his bony wrist, ducking his head down. It feels—it feels like his boyfriend just surprised him at school or something, and Harry looks gorgeous, tall and golden and happy, Louis doesn’t mind in the least. “I fly back in two days,” he says suddenly, remembering.

Harry sighs. “I start filming tomorrow.”

Louis has no room. Their recording schedule is airtight and even this five minutes right now is cutting into something, he’s sure of it.

“Is this all I’ll see of you?” he asks pitifully. Harry rolls his eyes at his pout.

“We’ll do like, Skype sex. Like Zayn and Perrie,” Harry says.

“Oh?” Louis raises his eyebrows, because he just compared them to a married couple.

“I’ll see you in London,” Harry says softly, and kisses him.

It’s one of their first kisses to happen without a blowjob before or after it. Louis tries not to imagine much importance in that.

-

 **22.11.2014 7:14 AM  
VIDEO—** The Rogue’s Instagram account blows up as they finish their newest album. Get the latest pictures and videos from Zayn, Liam, Louis, and Niall. **Click for more…**

-

They have two more trips back to Los Angeles with the suits, and then a final one in London to finalize the album.

“When do we talk tour?” Niall asks in the last meeting, and Louis laughs, because he’s currently tuning his guitar.

“A week or so?” someone suggests, throwing it out there, and they nod agreeably. He takes out a stack of paper from a folder and lays it in front of him. “There are just a few last things to take care of first. The label is asking that you guys make a few appearances…”

And that’s how Louis ends up at an album release party for Coldplay.

It’s stupid loud and he lost Zayn at least an hour ago. He’s not the type to stand off and stare at his phone at these things, but the only people he’s recognized here are like, real celebrities, and now his phone battery’s at 15%. It buzzes in his hand just as some song he can’t recognize starts blaring overhead. Louis hopes it’s not his.

“Are you at a Zac Efron party?” Louis shouts. He can’t hear anything on either end. He’s that guy. He’s yelling on his phone in the corner of the party.

“What?” Harry shouts back.

“Well, Niall’s been asking. He assumes you know Zac Efron.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “No. This is… I don’t know. I think I’m at a very boring release party.”

“Me too!” Louis says. “For Coldplay’s record, but I haven’t seen any of those blokes yet.”

Something clatters on Harry’s end and Louis holds his phone away, wincing. “Harry?”

He sounds out of breath. “Did you say Coldplay?”

“No, I’m dancing with Miley Cyrus right now,” Louis says. “Yes, I said Coldplay.”

“Oh,” Harry says, just loud enough Louis can make it out. “Sorry, sorry, I just. Chris Martin.”

“Is someone jealous? Is this you being jealous?” Louis’ voice must be shrill over the music playing and guests chatting, giddy with this information.

“No, no, I. It’s Coldplay.”

“Harry, are you saying you favor a band over mine? Do you run a Chris Martin fan twitter?”

“No! No, I like them. Is all.” Harry Styles does sheepish very well, Louis knows, but he’s utterly charmed, especially this time.

“Oh, sure, sure, is all. My phone’s going to die, though, Harry, tell Zac I said hi.”

“I think it might be Andrew Garfield, but I’m still not sure.”

“Of course it is.”

“Bye, Lou.”

Louis hangs up. _Now_ their song is playing, which he hopes means the new record is finished playing. And he hopes that means Coldplay will do a speech.

He perks up, searching around the bobbing heads for a bouncing blonde. If anyone’s found himself befriending men who play guitar tonight, it’s Niall.

-

They’re in Milan.

“I’m in Milan, bitch!” Liam is screaming into a camera.

They have a week until their tour rehearsals start and Harry has a week of random action filming in Italy. When Niall decided to go back home, Zayn and Liam hopped a flight with Louis.

Who is drunk, once again. Niall was right, it keeps happening.

He tells Liam he should probably delete that video and goes back to listening to Zayn and Harry, his favorite drunk activity. Or, probably second favorite.

“We could do a film together,” Harry suggests, and Zayn pulls a face. The no-more-I’m-done-boys, this-is-the-last-round, there-are-too-many-people-in-here kind.

“Nah, mate, I don’t act,” he says.

“That’s fine, neither does Harry,” Louis shouts above the music. Harry laughs, bright and happy, and Zayn ignores him.

“They tried to make us do commercials once, we were rubbish,” Zayn says.

“I saw,” Harry lights up. “I thought they were cute.”

They lean in to better hear, Harry gesturing while Zayn listens intently, quietly, so Louis leans back in his seat, sucking on his straw from the side of his mouth, watching Harry’s.

He’s very focused, is the thing, because the next thing he realizes is his drink’s gone and Harry’s at his shoulder, grabbing at Louis like he wants him to move, hot breath in his ear, “you are a jealous drunk.”

Louis has to steady himself, after he realizes he’s been pulled to his feet, licking his lips when he sees Harry’s the one who stole away his drink. “’M not,” he says. “Drunk.”

“No,” Harry deadpans. “Absolutely not.”

Zayn’s chair is empty and Louis wonders how long he’s been gone, where Liam’s ended up by now. Harry’s hands are on his shoulders, trying to keep him upright, and Louis, Louis is focusing. “Have you got a bus around here or something? Where are we going, Lou?”

He’s asking questions. He’s expecting answers of Louis.  Louis feels where Harry’s pressed against him, the touch of his hips over his jeans, and he leans in, “wanna get off in the toilets?”

Harry laughs. “God, no.” Louis almost pouts. Almost.

“I’m not blowing you in a dirty loo when you can barely stand—”

“I only meant a handjob, you want to blow me? ”

“—so just tell me where you’re sleeping tonight.”

Louis smacks his lips. Harry is ridiculous. “With you.”

“You got him?” Louis hears, and there’s Zayn with a very exasperated and very drunk Liam. Harry must answer because then he hears, “Good. Christ, you two are like, _so_ together.”

Louis freezes, with one hand in Harry’s back pocket. “Heeey,” he scowls.  They’re not. Really.

Harry hangs up the phone with a cab. “Let’s go,” he all but huffs, and stalks out the exit, taking Louis with him.

They’re quiet the entire ride back and the elevator up and when they undress to get into Harry’s hotel bed. Louis’ sobered up a bit, but he suddenly gets the fear that he’s not all the way there, like he’s disappearing in the bed with Harry’s mood. He rolls into Harry’s side, making himself small, and he’s relieved when Harry puts his arm around him.

-

 **10.12.2014 5:56 PM  
** He’s been listed on our Stars to Watch, and this weekend Harry Styles bursts into theaters with two major films and an independent premiering at Sundance next month. **Click for more…**

-

They Skype at night until Harry falls asleep on his laptop. Louis goes to see his movies twice, each, in different cities. It’s nothing more and nothing less.

-

Niall is shoving his phone in Louis’ face. “’ve you seen this?” he asks, disgruntled. His hair’s all mussed from sleep and he looks a bit mad.

Louis squints. He’s looking at a set of pictures from a red carpet, mostly of Harry all suited up, so he assumes it’s a recent premiere. There’s a girl on his arm.

“Who’s that?” Niall pushes the phone closer.

She’s gorgeous and blonde and very tall and Louis has never seen her in his life. “Dunno,” he says, turning back to his own phone.

“Oh.” Niall looks at the screen one more time, perplexed. “Thought you were together.”

Louis doesn’t say anything and it must satisfy Niall because he hands Louis his guitar. “Run this with me real quick.”

Rehearsal takes his mind off it. Packing takes his mind off it. Harry sends him pictures from sets and Louis sends him tons back from his drunken birthday, and it takes his mind off it.

They’re not together.

-

 **01.01.2015 8:24 PM  
** The Rogue announces UK and North America headlining tour. **Click to see dates and more…**

-

Harry calls from airports. Louis calls from a bus.

“I ran like, four miles today. Just in 57 takes. 57, Louis.”

“I sleep inches away from Liam Payne after he doesn’t shower.”

“That’s—”

“It’s dreadful, is what it is, so tell me something better. Make my day, Styles.”

“I’m gonna make your fucking week, listen to this...”

-

“Jimmy Fallon.”

“Hi, Lou.”

“Jimmy fucking Fallon, and you didn’t even bloody tell me.”

“I didn’t know if you’d want to watch—”

“Want to watch, you monster, I had to find out from Paul! I stayed in! I wore slippers! For your Jimmy fucking Fallon interview, and you were proper charming as usual, by the way, I was impressed.”

“Oh, I—were you?”

“’M not saying it again—oh, I’ve really got to go, they’re yelling at me.”

“Bye, Lou.”

-

“’M leavin’ you this voicemail, I think, I think this is like my fifth one? Jesus, I’m sorry,it’s, I don’t know what time it is or, or what, but I got a bit worried. I might’ve texted Paul and he said you’re sick, so if you could like, charge your phone, Louis, I thought I was going out of my mind.”

-

“Did you send me a dozen edible arrangements? Oh my god, you did _not_ , you tit, stop sending them, Paul’s having a fit! Have a good day, H.”

-

“Do you know what I mean?”

“Mm.”

“Harr—Harry? Harry, you’re falling asleep. I’m hanging up. Good night, movie star.”

-

“Y’alright?”

“I miss—I fucking miss you, okay, come back, come back to London. I have a break, hole up in this hotel with me or something, Louis, just—”

-

Louis flies into Heathrow on Valentine’s Day. The irony is not lost on him.

It’s a fancy room, Louis notices when he walks in, and figures either Harry or someone else splurged for it. Kissing Harry is still stupidly good, and Louis is also realizing just how much he missed kissing Harry.

“How long do you have?” he asks into Harry’s mouth, shedding his bags and unbuckling his jeans.

“Couple days,” Harry says, his hands already moving down.

“Shit,” Louis gasps when Harry gets a grip on him. He’s barely warmed up from being outside and Harry’s already dropping to his knees. “Okay, okay, shit.”

“I told you,” Harry says, and then slides down, hot wet heat, and Louis can’t stop the high pitched noise that comes out of him.

“Oh my—fuck.”

He will say, Harry’s vastly improved. He’s not going to question how his skills got better, he’s just going to be thankful. And try not to come.

He feels Harry’s hands at his arms suddenly and lets him guide Louis where he wants, palms on the back of his head. Harry’s still bobbing, but now he’s pushing at Louis’ hands on his head, forcing himself forward, where Louis knows it must be cutting off some air supply and— _oh_.

He steadily forces Harry’s mouth down, his throat opening, nose pushing at Louis’ groin. Harry chokes. Louis doesn’t even get to swear, he just comes.

Harry wants to stop for cleanup but Louis hauls him up and gets him on his back on the expensive sheets. It’s like instinct, then, taking in Harry’s blotchy face and pink cock, to pull his arms above his head and hold him there, two massive hands in one of Louis’, and jerk him off.

It’s hard and dirty and Harry’s hips keep jolting up, and his eyes roll back when he comes quick, overwhelmed.

Louis works him through it, letting his hands go to pet at Harry’s sides. His arms stay up.

“We could do that for a few days,” Louis says, grinning.

Harry cracks open his eyes, breaths slowing down. He reaches over to the bedside table and hands Louis the room service menu. “You’re gonna fuck me soon, just give me a minute.”

Louis stares. It’s probably his best Valentine’s Day thus far.

 

They don’t leave much over the next few days. Paul calls with news that half their essential crew is down with a bug so they’ve rescheduled two shows, and Harry’s told they’re wrapping up some reshoots without him and the room will still be covered. It’s something like fate, if Louis wants to think about it.

Harry’s knees are bundled up, twisted in ways Louis just cannot himself, still sucking a two hour old spoon from room service’s tiramisu. He’s naked, and has been since 6 pm.

“I bought a magazine today, when I was down by the pool,” he says smirking around his spoon. “With your face on it.”

Louis’ watching him from his little corner of the bed, swaddled by the bed clothes. This is the _best_ hotel room. “My face?” he asks, bemused.

Harry nods. “Smack on the cover.” He looks awfully pleased with himself.

“That can’t be right,” Louis shakes his head. “Sure it wasn’t Zayn, or Liam?”

Harry’s brows knit together, tiny ruffle of his feathers, concern in his eyes. “Absolutely not, I bought the one with my favorite member on it.”

“So Niall?”

The pinch at his ankle hurts, but he got Harry to take the tease of a spoon out of his mouth. Harry’s face remains aghast.

“Really, I think mine is like underselling, so thank you for your contribution,” Louis huffs. He rolls his eyes to the ceiling to get away from the feel of Harry’s on him. It’s too heavy, suddenly.

“You don’t think that.”

Louis stomach knots, a little. “I think that their merch sells better than mine, sometimes, which is why we don’t usually do separate covers, secretly. Maybe. I think we worry about selling records. Or maybe that’s just me.”

Harry’s weight is soft and warm on Louis’ legs and it’s welcome. “Selling records, my arse,” he scoffs, as his is currently dragging up Louis’ legs, a lazy prowl, setting atop his hips. “You were just in that Spiderman movie.”

Louis hands catch his arms as Harry leans over him. “ _You_ were in that Spiderman movie,” he says, and Harry looks thoughtful for a moment before shrugging, “yeah, I was.”

Harry, at 2 AM, kisses like tomorrow morning isn’t coming and he doesn’t care. He’s thorough, but sloppy, mapping out the corners of Louis’ mouth with his tongue, right to his back teeth. And Louis, he gives as good as he gets, angling Harry away so he can suck in a bruise just above his collar bone that would have some websites talking if they saw.

“Okay,” Harry pants when he’s done. “Okay, fuck me.” His hips are a nonstop roll, wetting a patch of Louis’ pants and sliding around in his own mess. When Louis reaches over for more lube, Harry grabs him, sliding his arm back, back, back to his arse and farther. “Fuck me, fucking sell out and fuck me,” his hair is flopping over, in both of their eyes.

Louis fingers him until his eyes are wet, and then makes him work on his cock until they both come. He feels better when he falls asleep.

 

In the morning, he wakes up with a pair of Harry’s pants in his face and a note taped to his arm, _got called in for reshoot pls bring me food tonight ill forget xx h_

He also forgot his phone, Louis notices when he finds both of theirs in the sheets. He has to call six different people to find out where Harry’s filming and then take one of the most expensive cab rides of his life to just outside of London with probably the worst dinner plans Louis has ever had, but he makes it, late, and finds someone to direct him to Harry’s trailer.

He strides up to the door, balancing bags, and unlocks it. Harry forgets his own phone but he remembers to leave Louis keys to his trailer, go figure.

“This is not my best work, I’ll admit, so I don’t know what you’re expect—”

Louis freezes, his arms full with the bags. It’s dead silent, save the keys that fall out of his hand and Harry, Harry’s harsh breathing in the room.

“—ing,” he finishes flatly.

Harry sobs. It’s a god-awful noise, loud, and it scrapes at Louis’ ears. Tears drip down his ruddy cheeks, and he heaves in, gulping for air.

“Harry,” Louis says like it’s punched out of him. “Hey, Harry, hey.” He squeezes on the sofa next to him and Harry immediately burrows, pushing his face at Louis’ shoulder.

“You okay? Harry, are you alright?”

Harry nods, face hidden. Louis can feel where there’ll be a wet patch, and Harry cries again, breath hitching quick like Louis hasn’t seen since his sisters were small.

“Harry,” he says again, and Harry sits up.

“’M’okay,” he says, tiny, and Louis winces.

“You’re okay?” he asks. The great sobs are over and Louis wipes at his face gently with a shirt sleeve, around his eyes where the skin’s red and raw.

“I am,” Harry says. He looks like he could dissolve again in about three seconds.

“Was this—from today?” Louis asks and Harry’s nodding before he’s even finished. Louis forgets sometimes, that Harry’s job is more than trailers and craft service tables and working around dumb hours.

“Thanks—thanks for coming,” he says, in that small way Louis doesn’t particularly like right now, like Louis wouldn’t have, and he sort of mashes him to his side, lets Harry hide his face one more time.

“Is that Tesco dinner?” Harry asks, still sniffling, eyeing Louis’ things.

“Oh!” Louis starts dumping out his bags on Harry’s coffee table, piling it up with food. “There’s like ten different kinds of sandwiches here, the woman thought I was mad, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes are clearing up and his face brightens, grabbing at the feast before him. There’s a script on the seat next to Louis and he stuffs it under his cushion, feeling childish and protective. He wants the shoot from today as far away as he can get it.

In half an hour he’s got Harry’s sneakers in his lap and he puts his Homeland DVDs in Harry’s laptop to get him to sleep.

Harry’s phone, silent all day, buzzes next to Louis. He glances at the screen. “G-Gemma?” he stutters over the unfamiliar name.

Harry waves it off, sleepy. “S’my sister. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Louis says. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

Harry smiles softly. “Just the one.”

“I have four,” Louis says quietly.

“Mm,” Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, intrigued.

Louis can’t shake the feeling, suddenly, like he’s missing something, like, “Tell me, tell me everything,” he blurts. Harry’s brow creases. “It’s just, I don’t know anything, tell me everything you want me to know about you.”

Harry looks apprehensive, but soft. “Okay,” he agrees. “Yeah, sure, if you do, too.”

 

They’re drunk at 5 in the afternoon the next day. Louis has a 6 AM flight the next morning. This is how they’re ignoring it.

“What?” Harry asks, disbelieving, sprawled on the bed, bottle in hand. Louis hasn’t seen him so intent on something in a long time. “What do you dream about? What happens in them?” He’s openly curious, bemused like he can’t believe it.

“I’m on stage. And no one is there,” Louis tells him. And the ceiling. From where he fell out of bed.

“No one?”

“No one. Not anywhere.”

Harry huffs a little. “Nightmares,” he says, and takes another swig. “Bollocks.”

Louis reaches for the bottle and doesn’t regret a thing the morning.

-

 **22.02.2015 9:12 PM  
PICTURES—** The Rogue guitarist Louis Tomlinson arriving at O’Hare this afternoon. Staff say he hardly looked away from his phone. Also, take a look at The Rogue’s extended tour dates. **Click for more…**

-

The bus breaks down the second day they’re back on the road. Louis finds Zayn around back, bundled up, cigarette hanging from his finger tips.

“Stranger,” Zayn smirks and bumps his shoulder when Louis leans against the bus with him.

“Sorry,” Louis says sheepishly, warming his hands. He’s putting a request in for a summer tour the next time they end up in the Midwestern United States.

Zayn shrugs. “That was a 4,000 mile booty call,” he says. “I hope it was worth it.”

Louis doesn’t answer and Zayn shakes his head like he doesn’t understand. “Is he not going to fly out here, return the favor?”

“He’s like, busy and shit.” Louis waves his hand vaguely. “Maybe when he doesn’t have six things going at once.”

Zayn takes a drag of cigarette. “Yeah, I like the guy,” he says, nodding. “I just don’t want to see you get burned over it.” He drops his cigarette and stubs it out with his toe.

Louis scoffs. “Well, how fucking morbid, Malik.” Zayn breaks into a grin, laughing.

It starts to snow softly then and Zayn throws his hands in the air. Louis kicks at his shoes. “I’m glad I’m doing this with you, you know,” he says, scrunching up his face. He’s got Harry—he thinks, deep down, he _really_ has Harry, but Louis has had his boys for longer than most things. In a snow flurry halfway through Illinois’ winter, he’s happy.

“Yeah, me too.” Zayn squints. “Wanna go smoke?”

If they break into Niall’s stash, it was in band neutral territory.

-

They go north to Canada. Harry is in LA for a minute and then leaves the States. It’s one of those so close but so far away things that Louis honestly gets a little sick over, and when he can’t take it anymore he invites Harry out to tour and immediately feels bad when he listens to him try to rearrange his schedule—and a little intimidated at the mention of all of Harry’s projects.

 “Listen, I’ve got—I’ve got this one, and they said six weeks at least, but I don’t know, it feels longer if you ask me, you know, and they said they’d work with me on the dates for water training-”

“You know how to swim,” Louis interrupts, scowling.

“’Course I know how to swim but I don’t know how to do action sequences in a water tank amongst chaos.”

“Right.”

“Chaos, Louis. And between that, I don’t know when, I have a few days for that Scorsese piece-”

“Scorsese.”

“Do you remember, do you remember that audition, God, I was so sick.” Louis does, he thinks. It was just after they’d met, one of the auditions Harry thought he’d bombed. “But, like, fly out to Greece in a few weeks, Lou. Or I’ll fly you out, or I’ll meet you halfway in London, I’ll find time—fuck, sorry sorry, oh God.”

“Harry?”

“I knocked over a child, Louis. Where am I. Am I in Ohio? I don’t like it, Louis.”

Louis laughs, pressing his feet against the wall of his bunk absentmindedly. “Greece, though.”

“Greece,” Harry sighs, like he’s flying out for a tropical holiday, instead of a new film.

“I’ll find you,” Louis tells him. “Or you’ll find me. Wherever, I don’t care.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and Louis can practically hear him beaming over the phone.

“Go, act. Niall wants to see your new movie so I have to buy _another_ ticket.”

“Like your sixth, then?” Harry laughs.

“I’m paying your bills, Styles.”

“You—oh, they’re calling me, Lou.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll call you when I land. I’ll call you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will.”

“If you insist,” Louis says. “Go, go. Bye, movie star.”

Harry has a layover in London. At 5 AM he tweets _London I’m in you xx_ and texts Louis two minutes later _Wish I was in you_ and Louis snorts so hard Niall tells him to shut the fuck up from his bunk.

Louis falls asleep holding his phone.

-

In Toronto, two girls run onstage and have to basically be carried off. Two separate times.

In Jersey, Louis gets drunk and lost in the streets with Liam and Paul has to use the Find My Phone app to bring them back to their hotel.

In Massachusetts, Niall takes Zayn’s bass to the forehead and ends up with eleven stitches and decent pain meds.

Zayn toasts, with shitty hospital coffee, to the The Rogue’s best tour yet.

 

_Should probably stop playing too hard Niall’s cut looks nasty!!!_

Ok granddad, are ur feet up right now?? I’ll bet 1000 pounds you’re in a robe

_Rude !!_

_But correct_

I only speak the truth

You should stop working so hard my mum wants to know if the person I keep talking about is visiting when I come home

_You told your mum?_

Well not who u are just that I’ve been seeing someone

_Oh_

**Incoming Call  
** Louis Tomlinson  
 **slide to answer**

“Listen, am I wrong about this? I wanna know, really—”

“Louis—”

“Because we have actually spent hours at a time rearranging our schedules, we’ve flown _across the world_ —”

“Louis.”

“And my mum has been asking and I didn’t think it would be wrong to tell her I’m with someone, okay, I’m not saying we need to have formal announcements that we’re boyfriends. I just thought we were something more, I, I wanted. To be something more.”

“Lou. I do. Want to be something more with you.”

“Oh. Well, great.”

“I want you—you can tell your mum who I am. I want her to know.”

“I will get right on that.” Louis heaves a sigh, continents away. “I didn’t—I didn’t want to do that on the phone.”

“S’okay.”

“Yeah? Y’alright?”

“Yeah, no, I’m—I’m happy. Um. Your mum, she doesn’t—she doesn’t care that you’re gay?”

“Oh. No. I dunno, she just wants to meet you.”

“Well, I want to meet her.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“God, it must be so late there, go to bed, Harry.”

“I’m going. Bye, Lou.”

-

 **3.24.2015 4:32 PM  
** The Rogue starts West Coast tour dates with an extra passenger. We’ve got the details on who it might be. **Click for more…**

-

Harry all but sweeps Louis off his feet after his show.

“Fucking ace,” he says into Louis’ shirt. “Why haven’t I seen you play before.”

“Because you’re an arse,” Louis laughs, shoving him off. Harry flew in less than two hours ago and he smells like stale air and the familiarity of home, a little bit. “I’m sweating on you.”

“I have two weeks before I’m supposed to be in LA for rehearsals, I expect you to sweat on me.”

Liam makes a face behind him. Louis flips him off; he’s flying high right now and he expects to be for the next two weeks.

 

(He’s not.)

 

Harry, Louis finds out, is not very good at leaving places, especially for someone who films on location so often. He is incredibly good at bus bunk handjobs, and they get to try this new thing where Louis sits on his chest and feeds Harry his cock and that’s all great, really.

It’s basically a week of gigs and the best sex of Louis’ life before things get miserable.

“You’re so fit,” Harry tells him one morning, hands on Louis’ face, legs tangled.

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re saying that because you don’t want to get out of this bed.”

“Well, maybe. Maybe not. You’re still fit.”

He starts to pull Louis down into a kiss but he pulls away. “Nope. No, uh huh. Bus call, Harry. The big rolling thing you hate so much. Twenty minutes.”

Harry pouts.

“No.”

“Have you seen the views here, though, this city is ridiculous—”

“And we can get a vacation home some day but today is not that day. Today we are supposed to drive to Seattle.”

“Seattle _rains_.” Harry’s whining. He is actually whining.

“So does London!”

Louis’ phone buzzes from Paul. He can see Harry wavering. “Can I sleep on the bus?”

Louis scoffs. “You can sleep in Niall’s bloody bunk if it’ll get you on it faster.”

Niall lets him, because he’s a lad. And he has the best TV set up.

Harry finds more cities he can’t leave behind. Louis offers him tickets home, early flights to California—he literally asks if they should leave Harry on the side of the road, which Zayn smacks him for—but he turns them all down. He stops begging for hotel nights after awhile, resigning himself to the back common space and Louis’ bunk, leaving the bus whenever he can for food stops and shopping and sound checks and shows. Harry never misses a show.

It’s probably the worst thing, Louis thinks, the way Harry wants to settle into these places when neither of them can stay.

 

Colorado is not kind to them.

You’d think, with legal weed and all that, they would’ve loved it. Louis’ never met a piece of America he didn’t really like. Colorado, though.

He’s so incredibly not high. And he hasn’t been since they entered the state. They’re in a complete mess of traffic, tripping over each other outside of a club because they got the boot after a glass table broke (not their fault) and a wall of top shelf bottles fell over (a little bit their fault). Also, Niall puked.

Harry, who was hanging onto Louis, opens the door to a fucking limo parked in the street.

“Whoa, I called like four cabs,” Louis says, but Niall’s already following Harry in. “Whose is this?”

Zayn shrugs at him. “Ours,” he says flatly and slides in.

Inside, Niall’s draped along the seat next to a bucket someone conjured up. Harry’s not far behind him, gone, staring inanely out the tinted windows. Louis gives the driver the name of their hotel.

“Well, this’ll be,” he says, “this’ll be in some papers.”

Zayn nods, eyebrows knitted. “S’everyone alright?” he asks.

“I miss Liam,” Niall says.

“Liam’s at the hotel,” Louis reminds him kindly. Once again.

“And home,” Niall adds sadly. Louis tuts at him and pats his back where he can reach him.

“Anyone else, any pressing matters?” Zayn asks again, but he’s mostly looking at his phone, unconcerned.

Harry’s loud, disjointed voice blurts, “I imagine Louis is dead when I do sad scenes.”

Niall dry heaves.

“Oh, mate,” Zayn says sadly. “Some things you don’t need to share.”

Louis swallows. He finds Harry’s hand in the dark. “Oh, love,” he says. Harry looks absolutely distressed. It’s one of the more ridiculous moments Louis has ever had.

He floods Harry with water at the hotel and ends up sleeping alone for most of the night while Harry hugs the toilet. Louis feels him crawl into bed a few hours before bus call and when the alarm goes off, he can’t get him to move.

“I’ve even packed,” Louis says, kneeling by the bed where Harry’s stuck his face into the mattress. “I packed for _both_ of us, Harry, and we have to be on that bus in,” he checks his phone, “five minutes ago.”

Harry peeks one bloodshot eye out at him. It’s completely pitiful, if Louis is honest, but he also feels awful about it, soothing a hand down Harry’s back.

“Leave me,” Harry croaks. “Go on without me.”

“Well, check out is in 20 minutes, so you’ve got to leave this bed no matter what.”

Harry glares at him. Louis winces.

They’re only a little late for bus call in the end, and no one says anything when Harry immediately traipses to Louis’ bunk, Louis on his heels.

“D’you need anything?” he asks, hovering. “They’ll leave you alone back here, I’ll ask them to.”

“’m not dying,” Harry grumbles. He’s wrapping himself in Louis’ duvet, trying to fit all his limbs in the small cubby. Louis makes a disbelieving face at him.

“’m _not_ ,” he says again.

“There’s five days until California,” Louis starts gently.

“That’s nothing,” Harry says, jaw stubbornly stern.

“Harry, I will put you on the plane myself, I will book it right now if you want—”

“Louis.” Louis sighs. “I’m not going to California yet. Unless it’s with you on this bus.”

Louis nods at him.

“Go do weird band things,” Harry says, waving him off as he burrows deeper into his cocoon. Louis kisses his head, hangover sweat and all.

The first thing Paul tells him after the show is that Harry didn’t come out **.** Louis says that’s fine, because he was feeling pretty shitty when he left him, but the second thing that Paul says is no, Harry never left the bunks.

He’s the first one changed and the first one out of the venue and the first one back on the bus, because Harry Styles sleeps in never, basically, and has absolute distaste for any sort of mobile bed, hence their current predicament.

“Hey, H,” Louis says softly, arms reaching for Harry already, exactly where he left him. He blinks awake, glossy eyed, mumbles out, “Lou.” There’s been a flu going around some of the tech guys lately. Louis hopes this isn’t it.

“You hate this,” Louis says. He means the bed, the bus, the tour, the whole deal. His sneakers kick at Niall’s mattress below them and he’ll get shit for it later.

“I don’t,” Harry says, like a plea, and Louis rubs his back, the dip of his spine where he’s so, so warm. “I like it. But this is yours.”

Louis bites at his thumb nail. Old habits and all. “I wanted to share it, like how you do.”

“S’okay, you kind of suck at sharing anyway,” Harry says, peeking up at him. His smile is rueful. Louis doesn’t correct him. “Maybe I’m like, not meant for rock ‘n’ roll. I should go back.”

Harry pulls Louis’ hand away from his mouth, tugs on his arm. “Share this shitty bunk with me. You’re excellent at that.”

Louis kicks his shoes off and clambers over Harry for the spot by the wall, near-missing a concussion on the top of the bunk. He hunkers down, almost too warm and settled, using Harry’s extra height for comfort.

“I’ll book you a flight. I’ll see you in L.A.,” he whispers, and Harry nods, angling toward Louis while Louis settles his hands at their hips, grasping the hem of Harry’s t-shirt.

-

 **05.04.2015 12:07 AM**  
PICTURES—Actor Harry Styles spotted at The Rogue’s final sold out shows in Los Angeles this weekend. Our sources tell us this isn’t the first time he’s been seen with the band.  Click for more…

-

_Are u going to that award show thing next week?_

I’m presenting you hahah

_No way !! Should be the other way around tbh_

Yeah cheers ill just get up there and perform one of my #1 singles

_It wouldn’t surprise me_

_I’m quite nervous now to play after you present us thanks very much_

See you at rehearsals dearest XXX

-

It goes like this:

He’s standing on stage in absolute pitch black and there’s a countdown somewhere in the distance next to the cameras he’s absolutely petrified of and the lights come up and it’s Harry’s voice, Harry’s voice saying the name of his band and Niall starts strumming and it’s—

It’s winning ‘Best Song’ at 24 in the spotlight and Zayn hitting the high note every time and Harry’s hand on his back as they walk off stage.

They’re stuck in a steady stream of reporter after reporter until some agent somewhere calls for enough and Louis hugs the award, probably in front of a million cameras, and Niall strokes it and says, “Wait, do we all get one?”

“Well, I’m not giving it back,” Louis says petulantly and Zayn shrugs, looking overwhelmed.

Liam puts his arms around Niall and Zayn, pulling them in. “Let’s bring it in, boys,” he says and they attempt a group hug, Louis awkwardly holding Zayn and the award, heads bowed down as they breathe together.

There are not many moments Louis can think of that he has been prouder.

He feels a tap at his shoulder.

“Harry Styles!” Niall yells before Louis has even turned around.

If Louis thought he was proud, the look on Harry’s face is no match. “Congratulations!” he yells and throws his arms around Louis. His lips graze Louis’ neck, just the barest of kisses under his ear, before he lets go and hugs the other three, congratulating them all. In all the movement a manager woman takes the award from Louis, promising he’ll get it back, even as he makes sad grabby hands for it.

“After party!” Harry yell-sings and Louis throws his head back, laughing.

“Lead the way, Styles,” Zayn says, gripping shoulders as they make their way out of the crowded conference area.

It’s already dark outside as they barge out the doors, navigating the maze of gowns and dropped clutches and shoes getting into cars and Louis hopes there’s one waiting for them somewhere, wherever Harry’s leading.

The long line of paparazzi are yelling at various guests, Louis can hear, and Niall is whooping in front of him as he walks stride for stride with Harry amongst the flashes. Louis is used to hearing Harry’s name called out when he’s with him, like white noise sometimes, but something about the tone is different this time, harried and frayed.

And then he hears his own. And he hears his band’s name and a few congratulations here and there and then, “You gonna go celebrate with your boyfriend, fag?”

He’s not sure he actually heard it at first but then he’s sure he has, and Louis feels himself almost turning back, looking for whoever said it, but he stops that thought quickly. It’s empty next to him, suddenly, and he sees Harry has stalked off ahead of him, catching up to Niall again and Louis feels cold, he realizes, his mind tripping over what his ears are hearing.

He calls, “Harry!” and again when he doesn’t respond, and on the second one Harry looks over his shoulder, just a split second, and he looks utterly stricken and _oh_. Oh.

Then it’s separate cars and separate drives back to different hotels and there is no after party there is no stupid club there is no celebration and Louis is numb numb numb when he goes to his room alone that night.

It went like that.

-

(It’s not a new word for him. Louis knows that word.

Harry doesn’t.)

-

 **25.05.2015 1:44 PM  
** After parties galore: we’ve got the scoop on who went where after a night of awards. Plus, check out those ridiculous performances from The Rogue and Lorde one more time. **Click for more…**

-

 _“Hello, it’s Harry. I’m probably busy or something, so leave a mess—_ ”

-

“Lou! Louis! The neighbors are going to start staring. It’s cold out here and I brought food.”

Louis’ not sure how long Zayn’s been knocking on the door, but it woke him up. His phone says 37 messages and 12 missed calls, which he figures is probably bad enough to have Zayn ousted from his lair to come pry Louis off his sofa.

“I’ll force my way in!” he shouts and Louis rolls into the cushions.

It’s blissfully silent, until he hears distant footsteps, and then, “you really keep your spare key under the door mat?”

Louis grunts. “It came with the flat.”

“It came with—okay, you’re suffocating yourself.” Louis feels hands pull at him, turning him over roughly. “I brought you a curry.” Zayn sounds delighted with himself. Louis squints his eyes open at him, watching him set about his takeout boxes.

“I’m tragically not hungry,” Louis says.

“Sucks. I am.” Zayn digs into one of the boxes, feet up on Louis’ table, for which Louis scoffs and Zayn makes a face at him. “You’re still bathing, right? I told Paul you were still like, functioning and all.”

Louis sits up, trying to subtly inspect himself. He’s a little grimy, but Zayn’s probably seen him worse. “I’m not—fuck you, I’m fine.”

Zayn throws a fork at him. Louis scowls. “Right, but you’re not answering anybody’s texts, so people were a little worried. No one’s heard from you since the awards, I figured you got all worked up over something. Proper strop brewing in here, mate.”

Louis all but groans, lying back down as he mumbles, “’m not stroppy, you lot never give me any peace.”

“And your other half, too, where is England’s sweetheart?” Zayn continues, looking around as though Harry will appear in front of him.

Under a pillow, Louis breathes. “’S probably off somewhere shooting something,” Louis says slowly. “Or, I don’t know, I don’t know at all because I don’t know the last time I spoke to him.”

Zayn squints at him, mouth full. “Hey,” he says softly. “What d’you mean? What’s up?”

Louis sighs, hands fidgeting. “Someone said something,” he blurts, like he can’t help himself, and then he keeps going, “I feel like, like it’s my fault, a bit.”

“Someone said something, like what? Online?”

“No,” Louis says. He can feel every contour of his face where it’s smushed into the fabric, hot and miserable and ridiculous, and then it’s gone and Zayn’s looming over him, sweet cologne and spicy breath.

“Lou,” he says, and as if Louis could ever shut Zayn out.

“All those paps outside when we left the music hall last week, they were shouting shit, and that never bothers me, it _doesn’t_ ,” Louis says, meeting Zayn’s eyes as he watches him critically, food forgotten completely. “This one guy, he fucking—he called me a fag, you know, and it’s like, it’s _stupid_ , Zayn.” He feels his voice, high in his throat. “It’s like I don’t know if Harry’s freaking out because of that, or because some bloke knew we were together.” He’s got no air left in his lungs, it feels like, gone with just a few short sentences.

Zayn leans back in his chair, quiet for a moment. “Well, he’s an idiot if he is,” he says assuredly,  and Louis laughs, cold, disjointed, because it’s not so often that Zayn Malik has a bad word to say about anyone.

“ _You’re_ feeling like shit for this? Nah, I don’t think so,” Zayn shakes his head. His accent’s thicker now, angry, and Louis jerks his head up.

“What?” he asks. “What are you—”

 “Lou, I’ve heard you on the phone with him a hundred times. You meet up the second you get a break, no matter what, you’re always talking to each other somehow. You spend days with together, right, and I know you always go to that sandwich place by the studio in London. Jesus, what do you think Perrie and I do?”

Louis scoffs. “You and Perrie and married.”

“Fine, then, you’re pretty much married.”

Louis blanches.

“Seriously,” Zayn leans in, “I can’t imagine your phone bill.”

Louis swallows, staring inanely somewhere past Zayn’s shoulder. “I’ve been trying to give him his space,” he says.

“Fuck his space,” Zayn says quietly, “when you fly across the world to go see him. S’not fair.”

The flat still smells of curry, and Louis’ hands move in his lap, tattoos shifting. “’S not the first to bolt like this, Zayn,” he says finally.

“No,” Zayn agrees. “And it’s shit. And he probably won’t be the last.” _If you let him_ , he hears Zayn say and it’s cold and harsh and honest.

He doesn’t let Zayn stay the night with him. He falls asleep on his sofa again and wakes up too many times in the pitch black, like phantom pains, like limbs lost.

-

 _“Sorry, this user’s mailbox is full. You cannot leave a message at this time—_ ”

-

Two days into Louis’ funk, he wakes up and races to the toilet, heaving up a night of awful food and booze. On another day, he’d accept it if it weren’t for the unbearable body aches and migraine blooming behind his skull, and he gasps wetly, resting his fever-hot forehead against the cool porcelain.

Louis doesn’t do sick alone. If he can’t have his mum, he wants the next best thing; he figures Niall’s gone back home to see his parents at this point and Zayn’s probably cooped up with Perrie.

On Liam’s welcome mat, Louis sways dangerously, backpack slung over his shoulder. “Jesus,” Liam says, all nasally, when he opens the door. He sniffles harshly.

“I’m ill,” Louis tells him.

“So am I,” Liam says flatly and lets him in. “I haven’t got your tea so you better have brought—” Louis shoves the box into his hands and waves him toward the stove. He falls into Liam’s giant sofa, curling up in all the cushions, while Liam putters in the kitchen.

He wakes up some time later in the dark of the flat, Liam’s snores rumbling somewhere next to him, his stomach rolling. He bolts for the bathroom and gives one apologetic thought for Liam’s pristine toilet before he bangs his knees in front of it. It’s violent and awful and he thought his stomach was empty, but no, apparently not. He heaves, head raging and his eyes closed tight, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, soft on his shirt.

Liam’s got a cup of water for him and he helps him drink. Louis blinks and says, “sorry,” loud in the bathroom and Liam scoffs and says, “shut up.”

He needs help standing, which feels like the worst thing about the last few hours of his life. He’s cold now, little tremors going through his shoulders and spine, and Liam basically swaddles him in every blanket he owns, curled up on the sofa once more.

“I’m putting in Ironman,” Liam says quietly, pats Louis’ shoulder, and then he slips away again. Louis rolls his head back, stares at the ceiling, and thanks every god above for Liam Payne.

 

He wakes a few more times to empty all the contents of his stomach and then some into some bowl Liam nearly broke his leg to get to in time. He’s sweaty, sickly sticky inside his nest, and exhausted, and walking is not an option, they find out, when Louis falls right off the sofa.

It feels like days slip by, but he’s not sure. They move to one of Liam’s guest rooms, and Louis has fleeting images of Family Guy, Black Widow, and Drake music videos, a never ending stream on Liam’s TV, until he wakes up in pitch dark, stomach rolling once again.

When he’s finished, settled back with Liam again, he pants, “’ow come you’re not sick like me?”

He can’t see Liam but he feels the bed jostle and hears, “Must have something different.”

Louis vaguely remembers muttering, “Hope it’s fuckin’ Mad Cow or something.”

 

When he comes to again, Liam is slapping his face. Louis tries to raise his hand and bat him off, his mouth fuzzy and tongue too big when he tries to speak.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Liam whispers, half relieved, half infuriated, and Louis keeps blinking up at him, groggy. “He’s completely burning up, yeah—Lou, Louis. Hey, keep your eyes open.”

Louis didn’t realize he shut them. He moves, sluggish, rasps, “What?”

“Yeah, keep them open. I’m worried about you, bud,” Liam says, and disappears from Louis’ eyeline. “I _know_ he’s not keen on A&E—what, should I call his mum?”

Liam keeps thudding around the room, moving hurriedly, and when Louis’ vision finally focuses on him again, he realizes he’s got a phone up to his ear, and he’s much more dressed than anyone who’s sick should be.

Liam’s snapping in his face. Louis makes some growl, he doesn’t even know, some noise in the back of his throat, because _God_ , that’s getting annoying.

“Quit closing your eyes!” Liam says, shrill, and digs in his pocket for something, tossing it on the bed next to Louis. It vibrates on the pillow. “Here! Harry’s been calling for ages, I didn’t know what to do.”

Liam disappears. Louis stares at the bright light of his phone.

Harry Styles  
 **Slide to Answer**

He doesn’t think; it’s like sense memory, fumbling his hand around to the touch-screen, and then he hears the white noise of being connected, that split second before anyone speaks, like a thousand times before.

“Louis?” It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before. Louis can’t make his mouth work again. “Louis? Are you there?”

“’M ill,” Louis croaks finally, and if Harry sounds lost on the other end, he can’t imagine what he sounds like. “Liam says I’m ill and, and my eyes are open.”

“Yes, you’re very ill!” Liam shouts helpfully from somewhere in the room.

“Oh,” Harry says, hesitantly. “Are you alright?” He clears his throat. “I mean, I can call back. I know I’ve been calling forever, I can call later.”

Louis scrunches his face up, but he doesn’t think anyone can see it. “No, I’m okay, you can stay on, H.”

There’s a long pause where Louis thinks the call’s dropped or Harry has cruelly already hung up. And then he hears, “I’m sorry I can’t—I’m sorry I’m not there, Lou.”

“Yeah,” Louis sighs. He closes his eyes and snaps them open again when he hears Liam shuffle up to the bed again, mumbling, “I will try that, yeah. Yeah, thanks. Okay, here he is.” He holds the phone out to Louis. “It’s your mum, Lou,” he says quietly.

“Oh, Mum,” Louis says happily, grabbing for it weakly. Already, he feels lighter, less like he’s going to sink into the bed and never come out. His own phone lies beneath his cheek, forgotten, and Liam slumps next to him, exhausted.

 

He doesn’t remember the phone conversation with his mum. He remembers her voice, just the tone, in most of his dreams, and he can still hear Liam, flitting in and out, awake and asleep.

There’s a weight pressed against him, and Louis opens his eyes. Liam’s leaning into him, face out of sight, and for a moment Louis thinks no time has passed. He wiggles, just the slightest, in all the bedclothes, sweat and grime and tissues, and knows his fever’s broken.

“D’you know I don’t even own a thermometer?” Liam asks. It’s the most lucid Louis’ felt in awhile, the clearest he’s heard something for the last few days.

“No,” Louis says, half asks. The room is so still, absurdly calm. He wants water, suddenly; he thinks he can get it himself.

“Well, I don’t. Own one. So,” Liam heaves a great sigh, “since you’re probably not going to like, combust in the near future, I’m going to go buy one.”

“Okay,” Louis says absently, tired already. He wobbles his arm around, clumsy as it is, and pats Liam on the shoulder. Liam leans impossibly closer.

 

Louis drifts while Liam’s gone. He hears the little noises of Liam’s home settling, doors creaking, the soft talking from a telly at some point.

There’s a rumbling just near him, interrupting his little haven of a room—Liam’s going to have to burn this bed, seriously—and then Louis is hit with a smell so familiar he almost chokes.

“What in—bloody fuck.” He jerks back, eyes popping open and trying to focus.

And there is Harry Styles atop the sheets next to him, long and languid as ever, peering over at him, calm settling over his face.

“What,” Louis says, because he was very much starting to prepare himself to never see Harry like this again.

“Liam’s got a lovely home,” Harry says.

Louis’ jaw drops a bit. “Did you _break into it_?” It’s suddenly very warm under all his blankets, sweat gathering at his palms where he’s got them fisted.

“No, I didn’t break in, Jesus,” Harry looks appalled. “He let me in the front door like a real person, but thanks for that.”

Louis notices, then, the tiredness around Harry’s eyes, little lines sweeping over his face, and he’s so angry he wants to shove him to the floor. “Wouldn’t put it past you, I guess,” Louis mutters.

Harry’s brow furrows, “Louis—”

“You shouldn’t be here.” In an embarrassing struggle, Louis attempts to roll out of the bed in his blanket nest, which requires multiple tries and Harry’s help, while he grumbles to himself and Harry interjects, “Lou. Louis. Seriously, why don’t you lie back down.”

On unsteady feet, Louis stands, righting himself. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he scoffs. “Wherever you were, shooting or whatever, you should go back. You shouldn’t be here.”

Harry, in the light streaming in from the window, is all shadow. Louis can see him close his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he says softly. “I was so fucking worried, I went to your flat and you weren’t there.”

“So you asked Liam and he said come right over?” Louis’ voice rises. The volume from the TV he heard earlier gets louder, coming down the hall to the guest room. Louis rolls his eyes.

“I had to know you were okay, you were so sick on—on the phone. Louis.” His face is pinched up, desperate, in an expression Louis has seen on screen and after rough takes, but never for himself.

He breathes shakily. “I called you _so many times_.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. It hangs, just barely, between them, and Louis doesn’t want it.

“ _You’re_ sorry?” In one movement he steps forward, a knee on the bed, instantly easier than standing. Harry takes a step back, squaring his shoulders. “I was fine with the random dates and the club girls and flying—God, the _planes_ , Harry. I don’t seem to remember complaining about any of that shit, but one night when we’re seen vaguely together and you cut it off!”

“I never meant—people were starting to notice and I didn’t know what you wanted.” Harry looks around wildly. “I didn’t know if you wanted the press, I-I didn’t know if you wanted to come out—”

Louis recoils. “I never wanted to make you come out, Jesus, what kind of twat do you think I am. I wanted you to be with me, I thought I made that clear a long time ago.”

“I couldn’t do that and not come out, Louis!”

“You were doing it just fine!” Louis howls. He sways slightly where he’s kneeling and Harry’s hands catch his shoulders for just a bare second before he lets go.

“It didn’t feel _right_ ,” Harry grinds out, hands in his hair, yanking. Louis’ breath stutters, because this is Harry at 4 am in his trailer, terrified, alone in hotel rooms, pacing and torn, and his heart hurts, suddenly remembering how young Harry is in this world. “Okay? Okay, I didn’t know what _I_ wanted, alright?”

Louis reaches up and puts his hands on Harry’s face. “I’ve been so bloody angry, all you had to do was talk to me,” he whispers. Harry’s face is wide open and hurt, and he thinks his probably looks the same.

“Lou,” Harry starts to protest, but Louis clutches at him, drags him onto the bed and forces them down together.

“No, I’ve had enough of that,” he says, petting at neck. “There’s not a list of like, requirements for this to work, Harry. Fucking press and paps, I don’t give a damn about that. You should do whatever you need to feel okay, yeah?  That’s what I want.”

Harry nods at him, minutely. It’s sad and small, but Louis will take it.

“Alright?” Louis says, giving him a little shake. “But you don’t get to shut me out and act like nothing’s been going on. I’m here for you, you prick.”

He gets the smallest of smiles from Harry before he hides his face in Louis’ chest. “’M sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Lou.”

Louis swallows thickly and holds on, the only sound in the room coming from Liam’s loud television.

-

Louis reenters the world as a functioning human being a few days later. He woke up by himself, after, with a text from Harry, _see you soon xxx_.

Liam guides him into his car (“How did you _drive_ here?”) and waves him off with a wary look as Louis pulls out of his driveway. Louis also kisses his cheek ten or twenty times to thank him, and gets a warning that next time he has to go to Niall’s.

He sleeps until noon for nearly a week—they are on a break, after all—and goes to dinner with Zayn and Perrie a few times and reads about it later online, laughing with his mum on the phone.

When Niall comes back from Spain or Greece wherever he’s been vacationing, he orders them all over to his grandparents’ old house in the country, where their first practice space still lives, and the four of them spend a weekend breathing in the old dust and words of their first record.

Louis goes back home and buys a baby grand, frets where to put it in his flat for three days, and then considers himself finally officially moved in.

In the morning, he wakes to a voicemail from Paul, “Oh, for the love of God. I’ll be callin’ back in a few hours, Louis. Liam’s emailing you a schedule you should look over, nothing serious…”

And they begin again.

-

One night someone breaks in.

Only, they’re probably the loudest burglars ever because they wake Louis up from a dead sleep and by the time they get to his room, knocking over everything in the dark, he’s in the doorway with one of his oldest guitars, ready to swing.

“Hi,” Harry breathes, jumping when he sees Louis.

Louis breathes shallowly for a moment, leaning against the wall. “How did you get in?”

“Key under your doormat,” Harry says. He makes no move to push past Louis or sit down, content in the dark doorway. He’s literally wearing a black beanie, he’s lucky Louis didn’t clock him.

“I need to move that,” Louis mumbles, setting his guitar aside. “It’s—Jesus,” he says, looking at the clock, “it’s almost four, what’re you doing?”

“Sorry, I just got back from Cheshire,” Harry smiles, nervous, sheepish. Louis eyes him. “I told my mum.”

Louis feels his mouth shape out the words _told her what_ , but then, “Oh.”

“Yeah, just-just now,” Harry stutters. He looks flushed, more than anything, shaky, but he’s not closing up. Louis puts his hand on his neck, bending them together. “I told her and then I drove back, I drove right here, I didn’t even think—”

“Hey,” Louis pulls him in closer. “Y’alright?”

Harry slows, breaths evening out. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m really good.”

Louis knows his face is stupidly fond right now, but it’s probably too dark to see. “Come to bed, yeah? I’ve got shit in the morning but you can stay.”

Harry nods, jerky, and follows Louis to bed. He strips down to his t-shirt and pants and slides in when Louis pulls the covers back for him, but he’s so far away, it seems, just a few short feet on the opposite side of the bed.

“You can come here,” Louis says quietly, after a moment, because he feels the hesitance, too, the fear of too close, too soon. He shifts into the middle and waits.

Harry still fits into the curve of Louis’ body. His eyes are closed and the tension finally slips out of his shoulders with one last sigh. Louis reaches up and slips off his beanie, already half off his head, and sets it on his nightstand for Harry later.

They’re silent.

“D’you wanna go on a date with me?”

Louis almost conks Harry’s head with his own. “We’ve had quite a few, I think. Maybe,” Louis says, puzzled.

“Like, like a proper date,” Harry says, thick with sleep. “I’m gonna take you on a date.”

“Okay,” Louis whispers, and smiles against the back of Harry’s neck.

-

Harry takes him on the London Eye twice and they walk the gardens until they get told off for standing in the flowerbeds. It’s touristy and old news to Louis, but they get their own car the second time around and Harry takes his sunglasses off and kisses him at the top, and it feels like LA and Milan and trailer bedrooms.

-

“Don’t you dare drop them,” Niall shouts from Liam’s floor as Louis weaves into the room, hands full with four drinks.

Louis scoffs. It’s only the second drink but Zayn’s already out with Liam for a smoke break and Niall’s been on the floor since shot number two, his guitar draped over him like a blanket.

“Don’t, Louis,” he says again, looking almost heartbroken.

“Quit your moaning, you’re lucky I’m even delivering these,” Louis says, settling down next to Niall with the precious cargo. “I’m a musician, not a bartender, for God’s sake.”

Niall’s got half of it down before it hits the floor. Louis looks at the list of song topics they started, skimming the titles.

“Who put ‘songs about blondes’ four times, you?” he asks.

Niall closes his eyes, thinking. “Zayn,” he says finally.

Louis makes a face, pulling out his phone; he’ll give Zayn and Liam five more minutes before he gets worried they’ve wandered off somewhere half-drunk. He scrolls through Twitter, listening to Niall hum next to him, clicking away at his own phone.

He gets four notifications instantly. Then four more, one from a news site he vaguely recognizes before it flips off his screen. Louis clicks on it.

 **26.06.2015 11:44 PM  
PICTURES—** The Rogue’s Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles make quite the pair strolling through London seemingly hand in hand. Get the first look here and decide for yourself. **Click for more…**

“Oof,” Niall grunts loudly.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis says. He looks up from his phone, “Did you get that, too?”

Niall nods silently, still reading.

“I gotta,” Louis starts. “I gotta.”

“Go,” Niall says, still nodding.

Louis jumps to his feet, spilling a glass. “Tell them, tell them I’m—” He gestures inanely to mean Liam and Zayn and Niall waves him off. Louis hops around trying to find shoes that match.

“Lou, I’m calling you a cab,” Niall calls, phone already up to his ear.

“Fabulous idea,” Louis says, tripping over his feet.

 

By the time Louis tracks Harry down and the car drops him off in front of his building, Louis is sober. He bounds up the steps and opens the door and Harry’s there, head in his hands on the sofa looking like he’s the oldest man in the world.

He looks up when Louis comes in, clears his throat. His phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of him. “They won’t stop calling.”

“Turn it off,” Louis says, stepping into the room. “If you want.”

Harry shakes his head. “My mum saw.”

Louis sighs. His hands hang uselessly and when he looks down he sees he’s wearing Liam’s trainers. “Oh, H.”

“I called her, right when I got it. And she had already seen it.” His shoulders shake. “I told her you love me.” Louis watches as the few tears that have been threatening to spill finally do, rolling down his cheeks. Harry’s breath hitches and Louis keeps watching his face, _gorgeous_. “She’s-she’s so happy, Louis.”

His phone buzzes again. Harry flips it over, “It’s PR people, I’ve spoken to them like, four times.”

Louis reaches his hand out. “Leave it then.” He pulls Harry to his feet, until they’re toe-to-toe. Louis squares Harry’s shoulders, straightens his back while Harry wipes at his nose. “That’s it,” he says, patting at Harry’s red cheeks. “Come on and talk to me. You’re okay?”

“Mhm,” Harry sniffles.

“This is what you want? We can—this can end, Harry, we can call this whole thing off—”

Harry clutches his shoulders. “No,” he rasps. “I’m in this. With you.”

“Okay,” Louis smiles. “Me too.” Harry ducks his head, leaning against Louis’ shoulder.

“What do we do?” he asks.

Louis huffs. They’re standing in the middle of the room holding onto each other and Harry sounds more relieved than lost, which is all he ever hoped for.

“I dunno,” Louis says. “I’ve never done this bit before.”

They rock together for a moment before Harry seems to accept that. “Okay,” he says quietly.

His phone buzzes again. Harry stiffens against him, “I have a premiere in a few weeks.” Words stick in Louis’ throat and before he can say anything, Harry asks, “Do you want to be my date?”

Louis has ‘The Rogue’ tattooed on his ankles and doves near his elbows and the word ‘dive’ on his left shoulder, and he knows bravery when he sees it. “Yes,” he breathes. Next to them, Harry’s phone dies mid-ring.  “So, this is your flat,” Louis says, looking around.

“Do you like it?” Harry asks. Louis can feel him smile against his shoulder. He takes in the plain furniture, the barest hints that it’s been lived in, like all of Harry’s spaces. “You’ve got a bed, right?” he asks and Harry’s shoulders shake, laughing. 

“I do, you know. Love you,” Louis tells him. “A lot, like, the boys say I’m quite stupid for you.”

Harry turns his head and the curve of his lips press to the base of Louis’ neck. He can just barely make out, “Yeah. I love you, too.”


End file.
